


Cut Him Down to Size

by Skalidra



Series: Cultural Differences [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Imprisonment, Shaving, Shiro's Missing Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7768234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Kerberos mission goes wrong, and the Galra take Shiro, Matt, and Sam as prisoners, they spend awhile in one of the cells on the ship while the Galra travel back to one of the empire's more central bases. At least until Shiro is singled out by the guards and taken from the cell, off for an, 'examination.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut Him Down to Size

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So, here we have me wandering off into another fandom. I couldn't help it. So, I watched Voltron awhile back, and I needed to know everything I possibly could about Shiro's missing year and his captivity, because that's definitely my thing. And there were a few weird things that didn't make logical sense to me (or rather, invited some interesting thoughts), so I wrote a thing about it. A couple things, actually, and this is the first. Enjoy!

“This one,” the guard surveying their cell says, and he realizes at just about the same time as Matt and Sam that they’re talking about _him_.

He backs up a step on automatic, eyes going wide as the two guards to either side of the clearly in charge one move forward, heading for him. It’s been a few days with nothing but the shove of something like food past the door, and of course he knew something had to happen at some point — you don’t just get thrown in a cell and then forgotten about; usually — but there’s no indication of what it is. Torture, death, something he can’t even begin to imagine?

The aliens haven’t seemed real interested in getting anything out of them — why else would he have been knocked out when he tried to speak? — but maybe they just hadn’t settled on questions yet. They did say something about taking them to the ‘druids’ for interrogation. Or maybe he’s about to be thrown out of an airlock in a casual execution.

“No, _wait_ ,” he gasps, as the guards close on him, roughly grabbing him by each arm and pulling him forward. Metal hands, cold and unforgiving, and the armor and helmets these ones wear don’t expose any skin at all, unlike the leader, whose purple-shaded jaw is visible.

He’d almost think they were…

He digs his heels in, pulls against the hold and tries to stop himself from being dragged out of the cell, but whatever these guards are they’re stronger than him, and his feet skid across the metal flooring. The leader closes the door behind them, leaving only the open slit of the barrier-protected viewing hole, and the guards holding him pull him to a stop, holding him high enough — the whole race of them is so _big_ — that he’s standing as tall as he can, almost up on his toes.

He stares at the leader, swallowing, and then tries, “Whatever information you want to know, I’ll tell you, just _please_ leave my crew alone. Please—”

The backhand is hard enough to make him see stars, to knock his head to the side and make the side of his face _ache_ with the sudden burst of pain. He sags for a second, before armored fingers are grabbing his jaw and dragging his head up, fingers digging hard into his skin. He blinks away the dots, wincing and trying to tilt his head farther up so those fingers don’t press quite so hard against him.

“ _Silence_ , filth. Your kind has no information relevant to the Galra empire; you are _barely_ advanced enough to bother with.” The fingers squeeze harder, until his mouth parts on a gasp of pain. “You are here to entertain, and you do not need your _tongue_ to entertain, so be silent unless you wish to _be_ silenced.”

He’s let go as suddenly as he was struck, and before he can even really focus he’s being dragged down the corridor. He swallows down the spare saliva in his mouth, tries to keep pace even though his head is still swimming a bit from the blow. His cheek and jaw ache, and he can just _feel_ that it's going to be a bruise; he's had a fair amount of experience with the kind of impacts that break blood vessels. What's worse is that he's fairly sure that wasn't nearly as hard as the guard could have hit him. Given that the guards dragging him seem to have no problems bearing his weight (there's something weird about them he can't quite…) this race must be stronger than humans. Or maybe the armor enhances their strength; that could be possible too.

He has _no idea_ what this race is capable of; it's terrifying. He doesn't know why he can even _understand_ them, because there's no way they're speaking English, and the differences in technology are so _massive_ that it's hard to even comprehend how their technology works. He can see the basic mechanics of it, but he's a pilot, not an engineer or a scientist so he doesn't _understand_. The armor, the ship, the cells, not _any_ of it.

They drag him towards the beginning of the cells, and for a moment he thinks he's going to be taken back out — get an actual _look_ at the rest of the ship — before there's a hard turn to the right and an automatic door that rushes open ahead of them. The room is stark, dark greys and purples and equipment that he can't even begin to understand the purposes of. Except that there's a table in the center of the room, and open metal restraints on sliders, and he knows _exactly_ what that's for. It's pretty universal.

He starts to struggle, but despite how hard he pulls he doesn't manage to do anything against the grip of the metal hands, not even when he kicks one metal-clad leg as hard as he can. For that, the leader turns around and gives him another one of those stunning backhands. Opposite side this time, and he goes limp long enough to be pushed down over the table, his hands pulled up and a brief moment of panic flaring in his chest when he feels metal tighten down on his wrists. The guards let go as he shakes off the dizziness, and he looks up in time to watch another person appear in his line of sight.

This one isn't in armor, but some kind of cloth instead, robes in the same colors as the room and the same purple skin as the rest of this race. But this one's head is uncovered, so he can see the points of its ears and the blank yellow of its eyes. He pulls against the restraints, braces his feet against the floor and tries to get his hands free. It doesn't work.

That head tilts to look down at him, expression flat and unimpressed as far as he can read the unfamiliar face. It starts to circle him, and he tracks it as far as his head can twist before it gets behind him and he loses sight of it. He twists his head the other direction, pulls against the restraints, and just manages to see the alien out of the corner of his eye. Its expression doesn't change as it finishes circling him, returning to stand in its original spot, where the leader of the trio of guards is now.

Then it tilts its head, and commands in a distinctly masculine voice, "Remove its coverings."

He jerks, but then the leader of the guards is stepping forward and grabbing him by the back of the neck, holding him down against the table. There's pressure on his skin, pulling at his suit and then he hears the rip of it. He can't _see_ what's happening, can only feel the sudden rush of cold air against his back, and he tries to stay calm but his breathing is picking up, mind slipping back to the dark places that suggest things they could be planning on do to him. Torture, experimentation, interrogation, or things that turn his stomach at the same time as they make slightly hysterical amusement bloom in his chest. It's a _stupid_ thing to even consider, but there's usually a theme to the insane stories about alien abduction and he's definitely not down for _probing_ of any kind.

He grits his teeth and tries to just _breathe_ as they strip him down, remembering the threat to rip out his tongue and really not willing to test that no matter how much he wants to shout and protest. The air is cooler than is comfortable, and he can feel the rushes of goose pimples breaking out over his skin as it's bared, the occasional brushes of those cold metal hands making him flinch away in both fear and just from the temperature.

When he's bare the leader lets go of his neck, and he carefully turns his head up to look at both him and the… medic? Doctor? Scientist?

"The other two?" the unmasked one asks, peering down at him.

"Smaller," the guard growls, " _weaker_. If any of these soft creatures is to offer challenge, it will be this one."

The scientist steps forward, one purple hand reaching out for his arm. He shies away, pulling _hard_ against the restraints as he bares his teeth, mostly in desperation. The scientist's eyes narrow, and then that hand is touching his arm, pushing down along it and following the path to his shoulder, then his back. He squirms, twists away, and the hand slides up his back and grabs a handful of the longer hair on top of his head instead and _pulls_. He gasps, having no real choice but to let himself get dragged upright, the angle of it forcing his hips to jam painfully against the table's edge as his arms straighten out and his back arches. It leaves him with no leverage, no way to brace himself, with the cuffs digging into the edges of his wrists from the angle and his groin forced tight against the table.

A bare hand — so it has to be the scientist's other one — touches his back again, tracing the line of his spine and then moving to his ribs, tapping against them as it slides up his side, like they're being counted. He shudders, craning his gaze down until he can see the very edge of the guards' leader standing there, mouth in a flat line.

"Scans will have to be run to see how similar this species is to ours," the scientist at his back comments, "but the skeletal structure seems to be comparable, and areas of muscle seem to be similar. It would be my theory that this one is physically more powerful than most of the rest of his species, or at least in the higher percentiles. Very silent though; is there something wrong with it?"

A quirk of that flat mouth; a flash of teeth that almost passes as a smile. "I told it to be silent, if it wanted to keep its tongue. I guess these ‘ _humans’_ are an obedient race of creatures, or this one is smart enough to know that I'm not bluffing."

"Oh _please_ ," the scientist scoffs. "You're not going to rip out its tongue; there are others ways to silence a beast that don't involve permanent harm." The hand in his hair tugs, and then the scientist says, "You can speak, slave, but keep quiet and respectful or you will be silenced. There will be no warning."

He shivers, but works his jaw and then asks, "What do you want?"

His head is tugged back another inch. and the scientist's voice is dismissive when it answers, "Nothing I need your cooperation to obtain." Then he's being shoved down towards the table, and the scientist lets go as he orders, "Get it on the table so I can start an examination."

The restraints release him, and his moment of hesitation — considering whether obeying will be better — means that he's too slow to fight against the metal hands that grab his arms and flip him over, dragging him up onto the table. He yelps at the sudden expanse of cold metal against his back, kicks out automatically but doesn't hit anything, and the way they drag first his wrists and then his ankles into the restraints feels very practiced. The metal closes down around his limbs, locking him in place, and he pulls against it until his muscle strains and it _hurts_ , but nothing gives. It's only once he's stopped, mouth parting in a small gasp for air, that he realizes how very exposed and painfully vulnerable he is.

Realizing that his legs are held apart, his arms pinned down about a foot to either side of him, his entire body on display, comes with the shocking force of a sucker punch. Not that he wasn't vulnerable before but this is _different_.

"We'll clean this one up," the scientist remarks coolly, like his struggle wasn't even worthy of attention, let alone discussion. "The other two are fodder; a simple scan and light examination will do, so we have a bit more information about their species. But if this one gives a decent show, he'll need to be shown as a slave of the empire so none get ideas. A cutting should suffice."

Fear prickles down his spine as the scientist moves away, across the room to something that looks vaguely like a cabinet, and the leader of the guards gives a quiet chuckle.

"Leave enough to grab," the leader says, with another flash of those sharper teeth. "They'll like that."

The scientist comes back, holding a device he doesn't recognize but it's glowing pink along one edge, and it looks a bit like a blade, and 'cutting' just sounds _really nasty_. So he pulls against the restraints again, sucking in a sharp breath and then managing, "What are you doing? What is that?"

"Silence," the scientist orders, before the hand not occupied with holding the blade-thing reaches out and shoves his head to the side, away from them both. "There's a pattern here," comes the remark, as fingers slide up through his hair, pinning his head sideways with pressure that's threatening more than powerful. "It's been cut before; see?"

A couple footsteps, and then a sharp laugh. "Disobedient little thing. Or owned, maybe."

Are they… Are they talking about his _hair?_

"This will do," the scientist says, sounding almost as amused as the guard.

Then heat touches his neck, and he freezes as it slides up along his scalp, pressing tight against his skin with a rasp that he's always associated with razors. It takes him several panicked breaths to realize that really all they're doing is shaving away the hair that's grown in during the months it took them to get to Kerberos. Not even his whole head, but just the sides where he didn't maintain his usual hairstyle. He doesn't know _why_ they think it's important, but… but it's something about humiliation? Ownership?

Difference in culture, has to be. Having someone cut his hair without his consent is _strange_ , and it's a little disturbing, but they seem to think it's some big mark of like… punishment, or something? His hair having been cut before apparently made them think — considering their words — that either he's disobedient, or someone else had control of him and… cut his hair to show it?

That's a little bizarre, but he's definitely not about to correct them if this is as far as marking him as some kind of slave is going to go. If he does, who knows what else they might do?

He shuts his eyes and tightens his hands to fists, trying to breath as slow and even as he can under the unfamiliar heat of whatever kind of blade it is. The hand pressed down over his head stays steady, at least until it rises and grabs him by the longer hair on top of his head, yanking him to the other side. He yelps at the sudden wrench of his neck, and the guard chuckles.

"See? Useful to have something to grab."

"I didn't argue with you, did I?" the scientist answers, and he shudders when the blade starts scraping up the other side of his head. "This species seems distinctly different in at least a few ways, besides the obvious physical differences, and despite the similarities. I think we should save one to examine more closely; you said the other two were weaker?"

"I'll bring the idea up to the commander," the guard promises, and his eyes snap open.

"No!" He jerks, feels the searing heat of the blade scrape roughly over the back of his neck and pulls away from it, curling down into himself to get away even as he bares his teeth and glares upwards. "Leave them alone! You do anything you want to me but you leave my crew alone!"

He braces as he sees the guard's hand lift as if to hit him again, before the scientist catches it.

"Stop injuring it; there are other ways to make it silent."

Before he entirely know what's happening, the scientist's other hand is gripping his jaw, pulling his head back up with both the pressure and the added threat of the heat of that blade at his throat. He gasps, and armored metal fingers shove between his teeth, hooking back behind them and shoving deep enough he almost chokes. The rest of that hand presses over his face, forcing his head back against the table and holding him mostly still and completely incapable of making any more than muffled sounds around the metal in his mouth.

"There," the scientist says, sounding pleased. "Hold it while I finish. This one needs to be in good condition for the fights, and I don't want to waste our resources on having to heal it. You're lucky that what you've done to it so far should heal before we get to the arena."

He gives a garbled protest, staring up at what little he can see of the two of them past the hand over his face with wide eyes. Fights? Arena? Is he… Is he being offered up as some kind of slave fighter? Like a gladiator? Oh _god_. What about Matt, and Sam? The same, or are they set for something worse? He doesn't even want to imagine either of them being offered up for the examination the scientist wants; he's pretty sure they'd stand even less of a chance of surviving than he's about to.

The scientist pulls the blade away from his throat, but the fingers in his mouth stay put, keeping his head down. He bites down around them, but his teeth grate uselessly against the metal armor and even though he bears down until his teeth ache, it doesn't seem to matter. He goes limp, panting around the obstruction and both hating and fearing the unfamiliar and _sharp_ taste of metal on his tongue.

It doesn't taste like any sort of metal he remembers having accidentally tasted before. Not the bitter tang of copper, or the more solid taste of steel or iron… It doesn't taste human, it tastes like something _alien_.

He can barely see anything anyway, so he closes his eyes again as the blade returns to its work, scraping up the side of his head and around towards the back. He breathes as steady as he can, unable to help pulling a bit at the restraints, but managing to keep from moving his head at least. It's hard, but he got through the Garrison and all the stress tests of being a pilot; he can manage just holding still for a couple minutes.

Eventually the scientist makes a satisfied noise and pulls back, and then he feels fingers slide across his scalp, over the freshly bare skin. He can't feel any drag of stubble; whatever kind of blade they're using must be a good one. His head is turned the opposite direction, pushed flat, and the hand explores the other side of his head.

"Yes, that will do," the scientist says, dismissive. "You can let it go. I'll run a few basic scans and then we'll clean it off. Once now, and then again just before we reach the arena." The fingers slide out of his mouth, and he swallows thickly and then opens his eyes and looks back over at them both. "Quickly," the scientist comments, already across the room and setting the blade down, "but thoroughly; we have other prisoners to process. A more comprehensive examination can be done later."

The taste of metal lingers in his mouth, no matter how he swallows to try and clear it, and the table is strangely still cold against him, especially where his head is newly shaved. He shivers from that cold, tugs again at the metal around his wrists but more out of a strange kind of nervous tick. Just to remember that they're still there, and he's still trapped.

The scientist comes back, standing over him with the leader of the guards. "Be still," the scientist orders, reaching out and tracing fingers up the side of his cheek. Fingers he wishes he had the courage to snap at. "Struggle and I will sedate you, and as I don't know how our chemicals work with your biology, I'd recommend you try to avoid that."

He clenches his hands to fists, pulls against the restraints one more time, and then forces himself to breathe out and relax.

He can endure this.

**Author's Note:**

> So, to anyone confused, here's what that was. In the Kerberos mission flashbacks, Shiro's hair has grown out of its undercut. You can still see where the hair is shorter than the rest (the top), but it's distinctly grown out. Then, next time we see him, at his fight with Myzax, his hair is shaved into the undercut again. Now, are they going to give Shiro a blade in the cell? No. Could he even shave the back of his own head that neatly? No. Conclusion; someone else shaved his head during his captivity, and it seems _very_ unlikely that either Matt or Sam would be given a blade to do it either. So, _gotta_ be the Galra that did it, for whatever reason.
> 
> So I decided that it's because some of the Galra are fuzzy, but none of the aliens they seem to run across have what would be considered 'hair' except Allura. So, good bet that the Galra see hair as the equivalent of fur. What better way of humiliating someone, or proving power, then shaving fur off? Anyway, my mind does weird things.


End file.
